Last Caller of the Year
by JustYourAverageCasualFan
Summary: New Years Eve. A new leaf to be turned over, a new set of seasons ready to be enjoyed and...oh, yeah, a supernatural creature rudely interrupting a previously pleasurable game of cards. (AU one-shot).


**A/N: I have never actually watched an episode of Supernatural as my Mum won't let me until I'm fifteen, because my Mum's like that, but I have read numerous Fanfictions and seen a plethora of GIFs appear on my dash on Tumblr so I hope this is fairly accurate. Un-beta'd. I do not own Supernatural. Please leave a review and enjoy :)**

Last Caller of the Year

Dean Winchester could safely say that he loved his life. Sure, his mother was dead and his Dad only earned enough to get by, but overall life was good. He was in the running for State Swimming Champion, his grades were good enough (who needs Biology?) and he got on well with his brother. Plus, being seventeen and a self-proclaimed hottie, he had more than enough to do on an average Saturday night, _if_ you know what I mean.

That evening, though, was anything but. That evening was the big one, the evening to end all evenings: New Year's Eve. And Dean was spending it playing cards with a thirteen year old.  
"Twist." Said thirteen year old declared solemnly, staring intently at his cards. Or his fringe, you could never tell with Sammy.  
Dean handed him a card from the pile on the coffee table between them, before evaluating his own hand: two of hearts, three of spades, a king and an ace (which could count either as 11 or 1). 16 in total.  
"Twist." He decided, taking one battered piece of cardboard for himself. He swore "Bust!"  
Sam smirked at the cards Dean spread across the vinyl covered MDF.

The boys were sat on the floor of their living room, which was very small and sparsely decorated with, besides the table, only a sofa, fuzzy TV and floor lamp. At some point someone had knocked out the wall dividing it, the kitchen and the dining room so there were changes in flooring that Dean had quickly learnt to expect and adapt to in the twelve years the Winchesters had been living there. In fact, the only place that Dean had never successfully investigated in the house was the cupboard under the stairs (which acted as a divide between kitchen and dining room). Well, _technically_ that and John Winchester's bedside table, but not everything you hear is true.  
"I win again!" Sammy was chanting, flashing cards that equated perfectly to 21. It was kind of childish, Dean thought, but a welcome break in the school induced angst that had been following his little brother around like a raincloud for the past few months.  
"Yeah, yeah, whatever!" Dean smirked, leaning an arm on the pale green seat of the sofa "You'd be crying on the floor if we were playing poker."  
Sam laughed "Oh, yeah, like you know how to play poker."  
"I do!" Dean protested, taking a gulp of the single beer his Dad had agreed to let him have.  
Sam eyed it sourly "Why can't I have a beer? I'm thirteen, everyone at school…"  
Dean rolled his eyes "Argue with Dad when he gets back, I'm sick of your whining."  
"I am _not _whining! It's just not fair!"  
Dean raised an eyebrow.  
Sammy huffed, crossing his arms angrily "When's Dad even getting back? He'd better get back before midnight!" _Wait for it…_ "I just want a sip!"  
Dean sighed; his brother's venting, although characteristic of the more vocal sibling, was getting quite annoying "Dad'll be back from his meeting by about eleven." Why a shooting instructor had a meeting at 9pm on New Year's Eve, Dean didn't know "Look, I'm sure he'll let you have a mouthful at midnight, if you _don't_ act like the heroine of a Victorian melodrama. I had my first mouthful when I was your age."  
That stopped Sam in his tracks, curiosity taking over "Really?"  
"Yep."  
"How come I never knew that?" he exclaimed, brown eyes accusatory.  
"'Cos you were nine." Dean explained, his tone adding a 'duh'.  
"So?"  
For all is geekery, Sam had a talent for missing the exceptionally obvious "_So_ you were a little copycat when you were that age…"  
"Well I wasn't exactly going to down five pints and start a riot at nine, was I?"  
Dean scoffed "I wouldn't put it past you, you didn't have much common sense then."  
Sam scowled.  
"Then, Sammy, then!" Dean defended himself, palms up and a smirk hidden somewhere.  
The younger of the two rolled his eyes and smiled, effectively accepting the apology and ending their little discussion.  
Dean glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was ten thirty. The lights went out.

The woods were empty, save for the birds and insects that called trees their home. The moon cast a soft light on the leaf strewn and frosty ground, in which a solitary set of footprints were visible. No blood soaked the earth. John Winchester was out of work tonight.

Dean stared at his brother, green eyes to brown. Their world had been plunged in to darkness. An earie stillness had settled over the house, an oppressive silence had wormed its way in to the woodwork and under their feet, clamping around Dean's wildly beating heart. The very moonlight seeping in through the windows seemed to have slowed to the speed of treacle. And amid it all, the hairs on the back of Dean's neck were prickling with a sensation akin to the caress of a ghost. Then, making both boys jump like a jack-in-the-box, the doorbell rang. Two piercing tones, ripping through the darkness and echoing around the house. They flinched.  
"Dad?" Sammy whispered hopefully, voice betraying his fear.  
"He'd have a key." Dean replied, barely moving his tense jaw. He took a deep breath, forcing optimism in to his shrivelled lungs "We're probably overreacting. I'll go and answer it."  
Sam nodded, moving to get up as his brother did so.  
"_No!"_ Dean hissed. He wasn't that optimistic. Sam froze. "Stay here."  
The younger frowned, conflict clear on his face, but eventually he nodded.  
The doorbell rang again, but the adrenalin coursing through Dean's veins dimmed its ominousness. Stiffly, he made his way to the door and opened it.

Standing on the porch was a woman. She was taller than Dean, hair wild, and swaying slightly, eyes unfocussed. Dean would have said she was drunk, if it weren't for the cloying scent of decay hanging to her, or the sense of danger that was rolling off of her. Dean glanced at Sammy, who- being him- had moved so that he was hovering, white as a sheet, a few meters behind Dean.  
Uninvited, the woman stepped forwards, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. Dean, still clinging to the door, found himself inches away from her chest. It was sunken, quivering slightly, skin revealed by her figure-hugging vest pallid. Dean's throat went dry for an entirely different reason to normal. He held his ground, eyes locked on the woman's mucus glazed irises. He cleared his throat, saying as calmly as he could manage "Sammy, go upstairs. Go in to Dad's bedside table."  
"Dean, I can't…" Sam began, sounding scared stiff but uncertain. Damn his loyalty.  
"Sam. Go." Dean commanded him tersely. A fine sheen of sweat had begun to form on his forehead. His gag reflex was going for gold. Every primal instinct was screaming for him to run.  
He had not, however, heard his brother retreat to the stairs. At the exact moment Dean risked a glance behind him, the woman struck.

John Winchester was dissatisfied. Not only had the creature he'd been tracking eluded him, but it'd made him miss almost all of his boys' New Years. This went down particularly sourly with the ex-marine due to the promise he had made all those years ago when Mary died. He would treasure his family, he would spend time with them. And he would make sure they and everyone like them was safe.

Dean's shoulder blades hit the floor hard, pain exploding across his back like a firework. He could hear Sam yelling, but he himself had been winded by the woman's cold, clammy weight. Crying out, he kicked at her, scrambling away as she rolled in to the centre of the room, then lay still. Sam appeared at Dean's side, helping him to his shaky feet. Staring at the heap of woman on the dirty grey carpet, Dean pushed his brother behind him; whatever it was, it had begun to vibrate.  
"Get upstairs."  
"Okay." Sam agreed, finally edging _away _from the horror movie in their living antagonist of which was still vibrating, the shudders increasing in intensity until the corpse was flailing violently on the floor, lifeless limbs flipping like a beached shark.  
"Sammy, run." Dean gasped as the writhing intensified, upsetting the coffee table and sending up a confetti of playing cards "Go!"  
Sam did, pounding up the stairs and down the hallway towards where their Dad's room was. Dean started to walk backwards, feet clumsy and arms outstretched behind him. The bundle on the floor was convulsing in ways that even the best contortionist would envy until, with a sickening _riippp, _the body shattered in to smithereens, painting the walls with shrivelled entrails. Dean grabbed the banister, mouth agape as he beheld the creature that, like a chick from an egg, was stretching on the floor. It looked vaguely reptilian with its obsidian scales, cold slit eyes, incisors the size of kitchen knives and barb coated tail like a mace. Dean's initial thought was to question the alcohol content of that beer. His second made much more sense, given the situation.  
_"Sammy."_ He whispered.  
The beast's head snapped towards him. It growled.

John smiled as he passed the town welcome sign, which was put in place the year the Winchester's arrived and looked the worse for wear. He glanced at the car clock. 10:45. He was looking forwards to a quiet evening with his sons, what with life getting in the way of their interactions lately.

Dean turned to run, but in a rush of air the beast was between him and upstairs, large muscles coiling as it prepared to pounce. Yelling, Dean spun around, dashing down the stairs. In his haste, he tripped, falling flat on his face. Winded once more, Dean barely registered the pincers heading his way in time to roll away, the shell encrusted swords ripping the flannel of his shirt. Desperately, he sprinted for the kitchen, but the creature was there again, mace tail catching him around the torso and flinging him in to the cupboard under the stairs amid a tide of broken wood. The monster seemed satisfied with this effect, approaching its prey languidly while Dean stared dazedly at the blood pooling on his t-shirt. Luckily, reality soon kicked in and Dean hauled himself up, groping in the darkness of the cupboard behind him for a broom – something, anything- to defend himself with. Soon, Dean's hand settled on something wooden. He yanked it, then blinked once, twice when he saw what he held.  
"Well, fuck me!"  
It was a short sword. A bloody silver-blade-glinting-in-the-moonlight short sword.  
Aware of the new threat, the reptilian creature advanced, pincers snapping wildly. Unfortunately for it, Dean was emboldened by his new ally, running to meet the creature halfway. Dean stabbed upwards, driving the metal in to the space between two of the creature's scales. The blade was met with resistance, and Dean was revolted to feel it as it sunk in, ligament and muscle twanging apart as it went. The beast recoiled, tail poised to strike, so Dean darted away, releasing the sword. It clattered to the ground, banished to a corner as the creature rounded on Dean, eyes spitting fire.  
"Angry now, aren't ya?" Dean taunted, hands curled at his sides because he had nothing to hold in them.  
The beast hissed, lumbering closer. Dean was pleased to see that it was slightly stooped, although that pleasure was outlived when he saw the figure on the landing: Sammy. Eyes wide and holding a gun, which Dean recognised as the one their Dad not-so-secretly kept in his bedside table.  
"Shit." Dean swore, rubbing a hand over his mouth. He'd hoped his brother would've stayed in their Dad's room, taken a cue from all the yelling that whatever had happened wasn't something he wanted to be a part of. But, no, Sammy had to be so bloody selfless.  
Following his line of sight, the creature began to advance on the thirteen year old.

"Oh, no you don't!" Dean warned, sprinting towards the discarded sword in the corner, leaning against the kitchen counter. As he'd hoped, the creature followed suit, insect-like legs skittering on the linoleum. Dean was just grabbing for the weapon's hilt when the sound of Sammy broke out of his stupor and ran down the stairs. The sound was sufficient to distract Dean enough for the monster to get a good hit in, sending the seventeen year old sprawling in to a chair. His head collided with the wood hard, sending spots dancing across his vision. Dean screwed his eyes shut, trying to stop the coloured spots swirling across his eyelids. When he opened them again, his view was undisturbed but what he saw wasn't any less dreamlike. Sammy, one of the turn-ups on his hand-me-down shirts loose, had their Dad's gun pointed at the creature's head. As Dean struggled upwards, he pulled the trigger. Clearly, he hadn't been expecting that strong of a kick from so small a device and stumbled backwards, almost toppling over. Searching for wounds on the creature, Dean saw none. The shot hadn't reached its target, but it had made their home invader very, very angry. The beast reared back, the lethal cone at the tip of its spiked tail poised to gouge out his baby brother's heart. With a speed he didn't know he possessed, Dean sprinted to Sam, catching him around the waist as he dove between the beast and his brother.

The moment John pulled in to the driveway, he knew something was up. Grabbing his gun and stowing away his worry, the hunter crept towards the gently swinging door, taking in the smell of sulphur with a grim nod. Crosshairs up, he entered the house at the exact moment that his eldest son screamed. Half a second after hearing the sound, he aimed and squeezed the trigger, barely registering that he had shot his quarry for the night before he was across the gore drenched room and kneeling besides his sheet white boys.  
"Dad?" Sammy queried as he knelt up opposite John.  
"Yes." He nodded "Are you alright."  
"Yeah," Sam nodded "But Dean…"  
"Yes, I can see." John murmured. His son was moaning, eyes half open, curling around a centimetre wide hole just above his left hip. Whether or not the wound punched a hole right through Dean's body, John couldn't tell. What was evident enough through the amount of thick, crimson blood on the floor was that they needed to… "Call an ambulance. Now."

**New Year's Day**

Dean's eyes were itchy, assaulted by sterile light. He was in a bed with- he discovered when he tried to stretch his arms- bars around the sides. _Hospital_ he decided, a hypothesis that was confirmed when he eased his eyelids apart.

His bed was in a ward, empty apart from his father asleep in an uncomfortable looking chair and his brother, who was trying very hard to pretend that he hadn't been sat at Dean's bedside holding his hand.  
"Good evening." Sammy greeted him, a tired smile on his slightly pink face.  
"That was very stupid." Dean replied.  
Sam frowned "What was?"  
Dean glared at him "What you did. Trying to shoot it. You could've been killed!"  
"_You _almost were!" Sammy countered, voice rising.  
"Only because I had to save your arse!" Dean pointed out, throat rasping from lack of drink.  
"You didn't _have_ to do that!" Sam gesticulated, handing Dean a water bottle with his free hand. He twisted the cap off gingerly, afraid of what the muscle contractions in his arms might to his bruised back and painful hip.  
"Sure I didn't."  
"You didn't!" Sam maintained. Then he reddened, inspecting his hands as they sat in his lap "But thank you. Really." He added quietly.  
"Anytime." Dean assured him honestly, then with a quirk of the lips "Really."  
"Happy New Year." Sam said with a particular brand of smile that Dean knew would melt some poor girl's heart one day.  
"Happy New Year." He replied, raising the water bottle as a toast.

And the rest, as they say, is very secret history.


End file.
